


perihelion

by ilet (orphan_account)



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, POV Alternating, also known as the winta and baby yoda adventure nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21628195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ilet
Summary: Winta and the child have disappeared.
Relationships: The Mandalorian/Omera (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 114





	1. parjir

**Author's Note:**

> **perihelion** _(n.)_ the point in the orbit of a planet, asteroid, or comet at which it is closest to the sun.

The AT-ST falls, and the Mandalorian makes his move.

He sprints for the overturned hull, slips the beeping detonator inside, and dives into the pond for cover just as the explosion bursts the walker from the inside out.

That sends the Klatooinians running. It also helps that their commander is dead, though _commander_ seems too generous of a term for the leader of a group of raiders.

When the cheers go up, only then does Mando allow himself to exhale. He sags against the bank of the pond, tilting his head back, sighing. Cara laughs beside him, shaking her head ruefully.

The villagers surround the fallen AT-ST, whooping, orbiting the ruined, smoking hull. Pressing together, letting their spears drop to the ground, they celebrate the end of the skirmish. Their _victory_.

Immense relief has flooded the village of Krill farmers. Cara climbs out of the pond first and then offers her hand down to the Mandalorian; without thinking, without question, he takes it, allowing her to pull him up. Dripping wet, the two join the villagers.

His eyes scan the crowd. More than relief, he can see the disbelief on their faces: their success is apparent, and more than well-earned, but they can’t seem to quite believe they _did_ it, that the Klatooinians had not only been engaged, but driven off—almost certainly for good.

The Mandalorian might have had a had time believing it for himself, too, if he didn’t see it with his own eyes.

Over the sound of celebration, he can hear shouting. Children’s shouting. He and Cara both turn to see Omera hurrying over to the gaggle of children. He sighs, and then catches himself letting his guard down. But it makes sense, he supposes, that he would only allow the possibility of relief when he saw they were safe and unharmed.

But he can hear crying. His brow furrows as he begins to walk towards Omera’s crouching form.

When he gets closer, he sees that every single one of them is still terrified, with tears streaking their face.

“It’s okay now,” Omera says, reaching for them, shaking her head, “they’re gone. The bad ones are gone,” but one of the children steps forward, hiccupping through their sobs.

The Mandalorian steps around her to kneel beside her, and his heart sinks when he sees that the color has drained from her face.

“Omera,” he says over the clamor of crying and wailing, “what is it?” He wants to reach out to her, to touch her arm, but doesn’t.

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong—

 _The child_.

The Mandalorian abruptly stands. His eyes scan the crowd of children, but nothing.

 _Nothing_.

Despite everything, this is what causes panic to rise in him like smoke. Icy, cold fear is a hand digging into his chest, searching for his vital organs.

No. No, no, _no_.

He can barely hear Cara asking what happened over the clamor.

Omera still hasn’t moved. Urgently, he touches her shoulder, then, thinking of nothing else he can do, pulls her to standing.

“They’re gone,” she whispers, eyes finally focusing and snapping to his. More clearly: “ _they’re gone_.”

Cara immediately goes to scour the perimeter of the village. A search party fans out, while the elders corral the rest of the children indoors.

The victory is forgotten; there is nothing in the air but fear. Again.

Winta and the child have disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters will be fairly short but (hopefully) frequently updated. Chapter title translations can be found [here](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mando%27a/Legends)


	2. solus

Winta didn’t mean for this to happen. She wasn’t even sure _how_ it happened. One moment, she, the child, and the other children were huddled in the corner of the storeroom, covering their ears at the sound of the AT-ST firing on the village; the next, the child somehow extracted himself from her arms. When she realized he wasn’t with her, she looked up in time to see him waddling outside.

She ran after him. She swept him up in her arms, swallowing her sobs, and began looking for a place to hide. A roar sounded behind her, and she screamed, diving to the side instinctively; a boot came down inches from she’d been. A large hand tried to grab her. The Klatooinian said something to her, but she didn’t hear it; she turned and fled.

They’re still running. Winta’s lungs are burning, her legs screaming, and the back of her throat tastes like a fresh cut. The child twists in her arms, making noises that sound caught between babbling and crying. Behind her, she can hear the Klatooinian crashing through the underbrush of the forest after them. He’s getting closer.

 _Mommy said keep running if they come_ , she reminds herself, but her pain wins out. Her knees nearly buckle. She darts to the left, skirts around a tree, and sinks to a crouch, breathing hard. Her back presses against the rough bark; she swallows, trying to get the coppery taste out of her mouth. She squeezes her eyes shut, holding the child to her chest.

 _Please don’t find us. Please don’t find us. Please don’t find us_.

The Klatooinian comes closer, closer, and closer still. Certain they’re about to be discovered, Winta flinches; she turns, her knees sinking into the grass, and curls her body over the child’s, waiting for the blow.

The hit doesn’t come.

The Klatooinian doesn’t stop. He keeps running. He charges right past them. She keeps painfully still, waiting until she’s sure they’re alone. Slowly, she moves to sit on her knees, daring to peer around the tree.

No one. Nothing.

The child coos. He tugs at her wrist; she looks down at him and finds her eyes filling with tears.

“Why did you do that?” she whispers, her shoulders shaking. “We’re supposed to hide. Mommy and Mando—”

The child babbles. He tilts his head at her. His huge, dark eyes blink once, twice. He makes an urgent sound.

He may not be able to speak—but he doesn’t need to use words for her to _hear_ him.

Winta shakes her head, sniffling. She wipes her nose with her sleeve. “You were going to help them?”

The child babbles affirmingly. He reaches for her. She picks him up and sets him in her lap. It isn’t that she doesn’t believe him. It’s just that—

He coos. Reaches up, his claws brushing her face, insistent.

“What if he comes back?” Winta asks. She wants to cry; she wants to hide her face in her arm until someone comes for them.

The child looks up at her imploringly. Their eyes meet, and her lower lip trembles. “I’m scared,” she whispers.

He coos again, offering her a smile, and lightly scrapes at her cheeks again. She shakes her head; she has begun to cry. He reaches for her hair, his message clear.

She doesn’t want to. She _doesn’t_. She’s never been so scared before in her life. And he’s scared, too. But he’s urging her to move. To go back to her mother and Mando.

“Be brave,” she whispers to herself, “be brave,” and squeezes her eyes shut. She starts counting backward from five. She tells herself when she reaches zero, she will stand up and venture out from behind the tree.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One. _Zero_.

Winta shakily gets to her feet, clutching the child close to her. She tentatively steps forward, peering around the trunk of the tree to look back in the direction she thinks she came from. Then she looks in the opposite direction.

No one. Nothing.

It is very quiet.

She sighs with relief, and takes a tiny step forward. Then one, then two. When nothing leaps out at them to drag them into the dark, she finds it easier to move.

After a while, she stops, planting her feet in the dirt underneath a cluster of wilting, gnarled trees. She looks over her shoulder, then forward again.

She gulps. Fear rises up in her again, but for a different reason this time.

None of this looks familiar. “I think we’re lost,” she whispers.

Plopping down right where she is sounds like a good idea to her. If she stays right where she is, her mother will surely find them. Eventually. Most likely with Mando’s help.

The child twists in her arms, vocalizing his disagreement.

Then she hears it: something coming through the underbrush, loud and fast, approaching fast.

Before she can dart back behind the tree, a rough, gloved hand grabs her up. She opens her mouth to scream, but another hand is clamped over her mouth. This one holds a rag to her face; she coughs, struggling, has no choice but to breathe in the foreign chemical smell—

Someone says something; she doesn’t understand it, but she knows the tone of voice: a command.

And then everything goes dark.


End file.
